


Outside the Words

by englandwouldfalljohn



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Drinking, Drinking Games, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Humor, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Jealousy, M/M, Never Have I Ever, Not Beta Read, POV Alternating, Smut, but in a cute way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 08:21:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29468628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/englandwouldfalljohn/pseuds/englandwouldfalljohn
Summary: ‘That was when I recognized what had been going on all those years. You know… for both of us. Crowley—oh, I’m certain he feels the same way I do, I am! But we had never been free until now, and I don’t know. How does one court one’s hereditary enemy?’
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 59





	Outside the Words

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MrsNoggin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsNoggin/gifts).



> A brimful of sunshine. That’s how Aziraphale would describe the weeks immediately following Armageddon. No Gabriel, no Sandalphon… nothing but picnics in the park, visits to Tadfield, and a mounting sense of rightness with the world. That clever boy, Adam, and his young friends showed an almost (but not quite) concerning lack of trauma following their facedown with Satan Himself. With, ostensibly, no one to explain himself to any longer, Aziraphale may possibly have… er, suggested… to Adam’s parents that he was an instructor of indeterminate nature at the local school. They were lovely people, and those children might take over the world one day, after all. Frankly, Aziraphale felt, it might not be such a bad thing.

On a subsequent visit, tea with Anathema had been brilliant. Crowley had laughed deeply at the ludicrous tales of collateral damage from that Newt chap’s unfortunate employment history, and Anathema indulged their curiosity about all of her aura-sensing and prediction-making thingamies. Aziraphale was thoroughly charmed, and insisted they pack up at once for a weekend in London to examine his collection of occult literature. Anathema was an absolute treasure, coming not just from money (which didn’t matter in the slightest), but from culture (which mattered in the extreme). She appreciated his hand-bound leather volumes while commenting on the vintages of his wine. Aziraphale felt that, had it not been for… someone else… he might have fallen half in love with her. 

However—and it was a rather enormous however—it was for someone else. It, of course, being his heart. When Newt had dozed off on the couch in the back room, Crowley had grown bored and gone off to Mayfair for a sleep. The squeal of tyres still hung in the air as Aziraphale blurted out his dilemma to his one conscious guest. Anathema, as, he realized, was her way, regarded him with a serious silence over her round spectacles while he poured out his heart. 

‘Picture it: 1941. The blitz is in full swing, and there I am, double-crossed and desperate! Guns pointed at me, and what, oh  _ what _ am I supposed to do? It wasn’t as though I was going to die, but I also couldn’t very well  _ not die _ , and the books! Oh, Anathema, those gorgeous, gorgeous books! And then, out of no place and with no warning at all, here he comes! I hadn’t even seen him for decades, had I? Not since… well, I suppose I oughtn’t tell you about that incident. Suffice it to say, there had been a very uncomfortable exchange which had left me wondering if I had made the grave error of casting him out of my life for good.

‘Well, I had never been so grateful to see anyone before, I can tell you that! And what does he do? What does Anthony I-still-don’t-know-what-the-J-stands-for Crowley do? He has a zeppelin bomb the bloody church! I was relieved of course, as much as I was allowed to be under the circumstances. But Anathema, you see the problem! The books! Just as I’m standing there, surrounded by decimation, Anthony J. Crowley reaches into the rubble behind me and  _ lifts out the bag! _ I don’t mind telling you, that was the moment.’

Aziraphale paused for breath and a dramatic sip of Chateau Latour. Anathema ruminated. 

‘So you had known one another for… pardon I’m still wrapping my mind around this… nearly six  _ thousand _ years? And you realized you were in love with him in 1941?’

‘Yes. Well, no,’ Aziraphale equivocated. ‘That was when I recognized what had been going on all those years. You know… for both of us. Crowley—oh, I’m certain he feels the same way I do, I am! But we had never been free until now, and I don’t know. How does one court one’s hereditary enemy?’

The evening progressed, with Anathema suggesting straightforward ideas (‘Why not just  _ tell _ him?’) and Aziraphale drinking his way into increasingly complicated and ridiculous schemes (‘Do they still sell carrier pigeons?’) Eventually, Anathema had had enough of the day, and was led off gently to the upstairs, where a canopy bed may or may not have recently manifested. Aziraphale took up residence by the fire, watching the North Star wink at his predicament. He must have been thinking especially loudly, because only half an hour had passed before Newt stirred and adjusted his glasses. 

‘What’d I miss?’ He yawned and gave a lopsided grin. Aziraphale decided he liked him. 

‘Only my regaling your paramour with the trials and tribulations of my horribly non-existent love life.’

‘Tell us then. And, er… got any biscuits?’

Aziraphale rummaged amongst the piles of notes on his desk and turned up a mostly full tin of Danish butter biscuits. He handed it over to a grateful Newt, who listened with widening eyes to the same story that had been related to Anathema. 

‘It’s a simple one then, isn’t it?’ he asked when Aziraphale had finished speaking. ‘You’ve got to make him jealous. Make him realize he could lose you if he doesn’t come forward soon.’

‘But he can’t!’ Aziraphale lamented, head thrown back against his chair, which gave off a tiny puff of dust by way of protest. 

‘No,’ Newt agreed sympathetically, ‘but he doesn’t know that, does he? So here’s what we do. I happen to have a friend, he’s an actor. We were in an improvisation group together once-’

‘Oh! You do improvisational performances? Maybe you could do one for-’

‘That’s, um, perhaps n-not the best idea. I mean, I was alright, actually. But the theatre where we met… let’s just say, it needed the repainting anyway.’ Newt cringed at the memory.

‘My!’

‘Yeah. Anyway, my friend, he’s quite good. And it just so happens, his name is Anthony.’

•§•

Aziraphale was nervous. More nervous than he had perhaps ever been, and he had faced down Lucifer! Oh, it was silly, he knew, but he couldn’t shake the absolute heart-pounding, gut-wrenching terror brought on by the possibility of rejection. At first, Newt’s plan seemed like the perfect solution. He and Crowley would pretend to date one another, and in the process, Crowley would see that he was rather in love with him. The whole thing would eventually be known for a lark, but by then, they would have pronounced their intentions, and be looking at tiny cottages, and all’s well that ends well (as Bill was once wont to say). 

Only now that the afternoon to initiate The Plan had come, it occurred to Aziraphale that he hadn’t considered the one most crucial component: Crowley would have to say yes in the first place. And if he didn’t, if he refused, not only would the entire game fall apart at the seams, but it would mean—well, of course, it wouldn’t  _ necessarily _ mean, but it could, it could mean—Crowley wasn’t actually in love with him at all! With the scent of brimstone still sharp in his memory, he wasn’t sure he was ready to face more potential for the loss of his beloved. Not that Crowley would leave him, but if he had to go through the rest of eternity knowing his emotions were his lonely burden to bear… no. No, this was a terrible idea, and he would call if off immediately.

Or, he would have done. Had Newt not been approaching the park bench with Crowley right at that very moment, locked in loud whispers which featured the words, ‘Anthony,’ and ‘got to help him, don’t you think?’

Damn. Damn, damn, damn. There was nothing for it, now. 

‘Crowley,’ Aziraphale chirped in a far too nonchalant tone. Truly, must his voice choose this conversation to experiment with new octaves? He cleared his throat as naturally as he could manage, touching the space where his Adam’s apple rippled against his anxiety, then pretending he had been aiming to loosen his collar. 

‘Aaaaziraphale! Newt here has just been filling me in on your little predicament. Gotten yourself gone on a human, have you? Fucken hell, I haven’t made that mistake in years!’

Aziraphale cleared his throat again, willing the words to finish their climb into his mouth. 

‘Yes, well. What can I say? These things do happen!’ His mouth crinkled broadly in a smile which didn’t touch his eyes. He was grateful for the waterfowl. Crowley was busy feeding them, buying him time to pull himself together. ‘And what, pray tell, has Newt been saying about the subject?’

Newt winked behind Crowley’s back, and received a stern warning look for his cheek. Now was not the time. Aziraphale smoothed his trouser legs and schooled his expression into a mask of pleasant curiosity as Crowley leaned back, draping one arm carelessly over Aziraphale’s shoulders. 

‘If you must know, and I suppose you must, Newt here-’ he gestured with a dramatic open palm-‘has just been suggesting that you and I begin a most romantic affair.’

‘W-what?!’ Newt wasn’t supposed to… he was only going to suggest… not tell Crowley that they should actually…

‘Relax.’ He smirked, leaning far too close. 

Cinnamon and something dark filled Aziraphale’s senses, and he knew if he so much as blinked, he would likely swoon on the spot. 

‘I would never dare compromise  _ you _ that way. You see, our friend here thinks that if I simply pretend to court you, my dear-’ he swept up Aziraphale’s hand grandly and pressed a kiss to his knuckles (and yes, Aziraphale was most definitely going to lose consciousness in the middle of St James)-‘it would make this Anthony person jealous enough to realize everything he’s missing.’

‘A-and’ Aziraphale stuttered, wondering how much longer before he could escape into the blessedly cool shadows of the bookshop, ‘what d-do you think of that idea?’

‘Welllllll,’ he half-groaned, leaning back and spreading his knees in a most inappropriate manner, ‘’s not altogether a bad idea. I reckon we could make it work, you and I. If you don’t mind being seen with me about the town.’ He tipped his head down, allowing his glasses to slide ever so slightly along the bridge of his nose. Those eyes, bright amber blotting out all the whites, skated hotly over Aziraphale’s face.

‘No! Of course not, my dear!’ Aziraphale thought he doth protest too much. Must work on that if he’s to be Crowley’s  boyfriend pretend boyfriend. 

‘Really, angel? Because you have had rather a millennium or six of practice avoiding being noticed in my company.’

‘I have not! I’ve simply had to be… occasionally… discreet. But those days are over, and yes. Yes, I should think this might work splendidly. How do we begin?’

•§•

It was not a date. Not really. 

Aziraphale examined his jacket in the mirror for the fifth time, buttoning, then unbuttoning, then half-buttoning, then throwing his hands down at his sides and giving a huff of hopelessness. This would never work. Crowley would never believe that Aziraphale stood a chance with this Anthony fellow. Aziraphale had seen his photo on Newt’s mobile, and to call him attractive would be an understatement. Add to that, he played guitar, which was an absolutely ridiculous thing to do unless one wanted to appear sexy and dangerous. Though, to be fair, his Anthony ( _ not _ his) was also sexy and dangerous. And may even play guitar, come to that. In thousands of years on this planet, there were surely talents Crowley possessed that Aziraphale had not yet discovered. Oh, how he desired to discover them all! But that would wait for another day, he supposed. Tonight… well, tonight, he had to pull this off. 

Anthony would be playing what Newt had referred to as a ‘gig’ someplace in Soho, and Aziraphale was to take Crowley there on their first foray into pretend courtship. Newt had assured him that Anthony was up on the plan, and would greet Aziraphale as though the two of them were not just meeting for the first time. He would flirt with Anthony, Crowley would grow jealous and protective, true feelings would be declared, and by tomorrow tea, this whole charade would be done with. Yes, splendid, that’s precisely what would happen. 

A knock on the bookshop door broke Aziraphale out of his fantasy, in which he and Crowley were toasting their love with champagne and creme brûlée. He blinked it away, mind landing with a thud in the dimly lit back room.  _ Deep breath. _

‘Just a moment!’ he chirped, not certain if he sounded convincingly un-terrified. He braced himself on the edge of the sofa, swallowed, and plastered a smile to his face. He could do this. He could.

‘Angel?’ The question hung in the foyer by the coat rack, too polite (nervous? No, of course Crowley wouldn’t be nervous!) to venture further into the shop. 

‘Coming, dear boy!’  _ Dear boy? _ Aziraphale mouthed to himself stupidly. This evening was not getting off to a roaring start. He cleared his throat and tried again. ‘Coming, Crowley!’ Better. Yes. 

‘I’m sure your coat looks fine, let’s hurry up, shall we? Your Romeo awaits!’

His Romeo? Oh, it  _ was _ working!

‘And the sooner we get you to him, the sooner I can buzz off and have a nice whiskey and a sleep.’

Oh. Aziraphale supposed that would be a bit fast for the plan to take action, but one can’t be blamed for having a little hope. He wandered out, forcing himself not to stop dead at the sight of the figure lounging against the entry, door flung open behind him. The cool spring air ruffled Crowley’s artfully disheveled coif, and nudged ineffectually at a black leather jacket that Aziraphale had never seen before. Did he—could he—have purchased (or otherwise procured, but Aziraphale wasn’t in the mood to judge) a new, skin-tight coat just for an evening out with him?

It was almost too much to bear thinking about. Almost. 

‘What’s with the love-struck grin, angel? Already thinking about the man himself, are we? Come on. Let’s get this show on the road,’ he insisted grumpily. 

Aziraphale moved past him onto the pavement, suddenly feeling horribly guilty. Perhaps he should come clean, or better yet, say he was feeling ill and call the whole ‘being more than Crowley’s friend’ thing off in its entirety. The idea would have been quite appealing, except he had already spent several lifetimes failing at it. He turned back, key in hand, ready to lock up (or possibly run and hide beneath a quilt) when Crowley reached out and snapped his fingers in the most  _ Crowley _ way possible. The door slammed and bolted, a leather-clad arm was slung around Aziraphale’s shoulder, and out into the night they went.

With each step, Aziraphale’s anxiety mounted itself higher in his chest. It must have been equipped to climb Mt Everest for the jabs it was causing along the inside of his rib cage. Quite unnecessary, he thought, suppressing a whimper at the brush of Crowley’s fingers against his shoulder. The fire-brand of lust radiating from that spot was enough to drive him mad all on its own, thank you very much. Crowley still smelled delicious, but now it was more rock and roll and moonlight than spice. By way of self-distraction, which didn’t work in the slightest, Aziraphale began talking rapidly about the history of the neighbourhood, of all nonsensical things. He wished he could stop himself from rambling, or maybe he hoped that Crowley would grow tired of listening and grab him by the shirt collar, throw him up against the side of a building, and kiss him roughly, right there on the street. Sure, it would be a tad  _ much _ , but it was Soho. Stranger things had happened. 

•§•

It was not a date. Not really.

As Crowley paraded through Soho, fingertips just grazing Aziraphale’s shoulder, he grabbed his inner self and shook violently. What an absolute fucking wanker he was.  God damn sad-sap. As if being in love with his best bloody friend didn’t make him enough of a horse’s arse, here he was, helping said best friend make  _ another _ person jealous. Fuck it all, he may as well walk into Hell backward for all the good this was going to do him and his pathetically fragile ego. Leave it to bloody Aziraphale to wait until they were finally free to go and get it up for some poncy guitarist. He could be a guitarist, if he wanted. He just... hadn’t ever wanted. Crowley sniffed, and Aziraphale looked at him curiously. Damn. Damn damn damn.

It was only a ten minute walk to the venue where Anthony and his band were playing. He grimaced at the coincidence, wondering whether his angel ( _ not _ his) had even noticed the name. Would they end up together? Surely, if it was what Aziraphale really wanted, they would. Who would be fool enough to turn down someone so adorable and charming, brilliant and delightfully out of touch? And then would they… he presumed, of course, that in a relationship with a human he would likely… would he call out that name? Would sinful prayers be raised from Aziraphale’s lips, bearing his own chosen moniker? Perhaps it was fitting that his own namesake had been the patron saint of lost causes...

They had fallen into an easy step, strides pairing as they had so many times before, only now Crowley was privy to the rise and fall of shoulders, the turn of neck, the accidental brush of hand against chest as Aziraphale blathered on about… er… he really ought to be paying attention if they were supposed to be on a date. 

‘Angel, wait,’ Crowley interrupted. ‘Is this our first date?’

‘C-Crowley, um… I hadn’t… well, that is to say, I-’

‘Or are we to have been seeing each other for some time now? Does this Anthony bloke think you have a boyfriend, or am I just to hang on you like a drooling puppy?’

‘No! Oh, goodness. No, of course not, don’t be daft,’ Aziraphale replied, and Crowley found his heart splintering just a bit further. ‘He… well, he doesn’t necessarily know anything. About my private affairs, I mean. I don’t see any reason to… to… to define this,’ he gestured between them as if putting out a fire. ‘Do you?’

Crowley sighed inwardly. ‘No, I suppose not. I’ll just be there doting on you then, shall I? Should be simple enough.’

‘Oh! Excellent!’ Aziraphale wiggled in that perfect way he had. Yes, Crowley thought sardonically.  _ Excellent. _

‘Aaaaafter you,’ Crowley drawled, hauling open the door to the small club. Aziraphale smiled  _ that _ smile, the one that he knew would have him fetching drinks and very much not pretending to be a sodden pile of love-struck mush all night. He paid the cover for both of them, then swaggered up to the bar. ‘Whiskey, neat. And for you, angel?’

‘Scotch on the rocks, please. And Crowley,’ Aziraphale lowered his voice, ‘I do think it’s best if you don’t call me that tonight.’

_ Nail, meet coffin. _ ‘Right, yeah. Yeah sure, an-’ he coughed to cover his mistake-‘’Ziraphale.’ 

‘Thank you, my dear. Just for tonight, I should think. Hopefully this whole charade won’t have to last too long.’

Crowley was more thankful than he had been in ages for his habitual indoor sunglass wearing. If Aziraphale could see the expression in his eyes at learning that he was not only a device, but an undesirable one at that, he might have to cast himself into the once-boiling sea. Fortunately, he narrowly avoided a fate worse than bouillabaisse thanks to a darling friend at Valentino. Welllllll, perhaps not quite a friend so much as capitalist shill with whom he’d done some deals in the 1990s, but that was neither here nor there. Crowley propped his weight on his elbow and lounged full-body against the bar, taking in the crowd with a skeptical look. It wasn’t exactly the glamourous sort of London concert scene he had once enjoyed, or even the gritty subterranean New York atmosphere he had tolerated. This was… oh someone, this was urban folk. 

The band appeared to be checking some final details before beginning, when a shockingly handsome brunet looked up from the set list, caught his eye from across the room, and winked. Well, fine. Tonight Aziraphale was to be the centre of all his doting affection, as per usual, but if he was truly going to be cast aside for some feckless mortal with an  _ acoustic _ guitar, of all things, perhaps when this was all over, he would venture out himself. Just because he hadn’t in ages, didn’t mean he couldn’t. If he wanted. Which he might. Yes. Good.  _ Excellent. _

The brunet patted another man on the back, then began striding toward the bar. Crowley knew he wasn’t at liberty to flirt, but perhaps a subtle slip of a phone number would do the trick. He was just conjuring one in his pocket when the man reached them. 

‘He-’

‘Zira! So glad you could make it tonight! And who’s this you’ve brought with you? Name’s Anthony, and you are?’ The man extended a confident hand and smiled. 

No. No, no, no, this was all wrong. Aziraphale wasn’t supposed to be attracted to an actual attractive human. He was supposed to be with someone… someone… ok, he was supposed to be with Crowley. But he would never see the error of his ways if he were shacked up with a guy like this! No, Crowley couldn’t let this happen. He glanced down at the handshake on offer and raised his glass, then placed his hand instead on Aziraphale’s upper back. 

‘Crowley. Aziraphale,’ he pronounced carefully, distaste for the other man’s use of a nickname rolling off his tongue, ‘don’t you think it’s about time we found some seats?’

‘Hm? Oh, yes. Yes, right you are! Thank you for the tickets, Anthony.’ Aziraphale was positively—and literally—glowing. 

‘Any time, Z. Talk to you after the show?’

He swept away toward the low-rise stage at the front of the room, and Crowley fought the desire to have him killed. 

•§•

Aziraphale had never felt so wanted in all his life. It was splendid! Anthony spent the entire performance winking at him and smiling, and though he knew it was an act, he suspected the surreptitious growls and huffs from the demon draped around his shoulders were not quite as fabricated. After all this time, all this hoping and waiting, Aziraphale was now sure—absolutely sure—that Crowley was as enamoured of him as he was of Crowley. Thank Heaven! Ok, well, probably not actually Heaven, but either way.

They were waiting outside the venue now, where Aziraphale presumed Anthony would come find them when he finished packing his equipment. Crowley’s aggressive tapping on his mobile screen only broadened Aziraphale’s enjoyment of the evening, which held a promise of warmth for tomorrow. He must have been feeling frustrated, jealous, and oh, if it wasn’t everything! Not that Aziraphale wanted Crowley to suffer… certainly not. He did love him, after all. But to finally,  _ finally, _ be the subject of one of his strops rather than solely the recipient felt wonderful. He was just wondering if it would always be this way, if Crowley would always be jealous of his affections, when Anthony rounded the corner of the building. 

‘Alright, then?’ He clapped Aziraphale on the shoulder and gave a fond squeeze. Crowley nearly dropped his phone, fumbling it between his hands and only catching it as it passed his knees. ‘Sorry to startle you there, mate. You’ll have to forgive me—what was your name again?’

‘Crowley.’ The demon’s scowl could make an ice rink of Hell. ‘What are we waiting for?’ He feigned boredom badly, poor dear. 

‘I’ve just gotten a text from Newt, says he and Anathema are having drinks down the street, wants to know if we’ll join. You up for it, ‘Ziraphale?’

Oh, he was slick. Slick and handsome and smelling of sweat and guitar wood, or oil, or picks, or... whatever it was that had a scent. Newt had certainly picked the right man for this job, and Aziraphale made a mental note to send him a fruit basket. Did people still send fruit baskets? They must do, everyone liked fruit, and baskets, come to that. 

‘Azzie?’ Anthony brought his attention back. 

‘Yes, sounds… fun! Crowley, you’ll come along, won’t you?’

‘Dunno,’ he grumbled, still stabbing a long finger at his phone. ‘Don’t like to be a fifth wheel.’

‘Oh, nonsense! You’re coming, and that’s that. Crowley.’ Aziraphale stilled the typing with a hand to Crowley’s arm and waited several long seconds for eye contact. (Well, sunglasses contact, anyway.) ‘It wouldn’t be any fun without you.’ He poured all the sincerity he could muster into his gaze, and saw the exact moment Crowley gave in. ‘Splendid! Let’s get going then, we don’t want to keep them waiting!’

It was only a few minutes walk, and Crowley swaggered ahead, shaking his hips and looking absolutely delicious. Aziraphale couldn’t wait to take him home. The pub was horribly crowded, of course, and Aziraphale thought that, without the paperwork and all, it might not hurt to nudge the patrons at the table beside Newt and Anathema toward the door. Crowley glanced over his shoulder at him as he dragged the stools to Anathema’s table, smirking in a silent approximation of, ‘well, angel, that  _ was _ lucky, wasn’t it?’ Aziraphale merely wiggled in response and pursed his lips in a suggestion that sometimes these things need be done, and no harm would come from it, anyway. 

Anthony brought over a large tray of shots, clapping Newt on the back and shaking Anathema’s hand. He seemed genuinely happy to meet her, and not at all surprised at his friend’s good fortune. Oh, he was a good chap. Aziraphale made a mental note to bless him before the night was through. 

‘Who’s up for a game?’ Anthony half-shouted over the noise of the crowd. ‘Maybe a little getting to know you, something for a laugh… never have I ever?’

Crowley scratched his sharp jaw in thought, then slammed both hands on the table. ‘Why the Hell not? Come on, Aziraphale. Let’s have a lark, eh?’

‘W-well, alright,’ Aziraphale answered, a bit flustered by Crowley’s sudden shift in mood. ‘But I’m afraid I don’t know how to play.’

‘We take turns going around the table,’ Anathema explained gently, ‘and announce something we’ve never done—usually something risqué or scandalous—and everyone who  _ has _ done that thing takes a drink. I’ll start: never have I ever… been arrested.’

Newt and Aziraphale lifted their glasses to their lips, to surprised clapping from the table. 

‘It was a misunderstanding!’ Aziraphale insisted, though he did give a little bow. 

‘Mine wasn’t.’ Newt smiled shyly into his glass. ‘Never have I ever… had sex with a man.’

Everyone else at the table drank, and Newt looked absolutely stunned. 

‘Maybe you ought to try it, mate,’ Anthony laughed. ‘Never have I ever had sex with a woman.’

Crowley, Anathema, and Anthony drank, and Aziraphale wondered if this was such a wonderful idea after all. 

‘You little minx, I didn’t know you were on my team,’ Anthony cheered Anathema. ‘Suspected  _ you _ were, though,’ he said to Crowley with a wink.

‘Is it my go now?’ Aziraphale felt a bit flushed. He blamed the alcohol. ‘Never have I ever… never have I ever…’

‘Make it a good one, angel,’ Crowley said, fiddling with an empty shot glass, clearly feeling a bit stronger for his imbibement. 

‘Oh! Never have I ever summoned Satan!’

Anthony laughed, until Crowley chided, ‘Has to be something you haven’t done, Aziraphale.’

‘Wait… what?’

‘Here,’ Crowley lifted his glass to the table, ‘I’ll go. Never have I ever worn women’s undergarments.’

Anathema drank easily, and as Aziraphale lifted his glass to his lips, the rest of the table erupted in baudy cheering and whistling. 

‘Really, Aziraphale? Well, you think you know a person!’

‘Wait, Crowley! That isn’t fair! You said it has to be something you hadn’t done.’

‘It’s true, angel. Never have I ever.’

‘But… but all those times… all those  _ years! _ ’

‘I could just as easily have said, “Never have I ever worn pants at all,” but this way seemed a bit more fun.’ The demon smirked wildly as Aziraphale’s eyes lowered of their own accord to Crowley’s lap. 

‘Now, now, boys. Save it for the after party!’ Anathema scolded jokingly. The room spun for a moment in Aziraphale’s peripheral vision, and he stood, gripping Crowley’s shoulder. 

‘I think it’s best if you take me home,’ he announced in a much louder voice than he’d intended. 

‘You alright there?’ Anathema asked, clearly worried. 

‘Yes, yes. I’ll be fine. Think the… the alcohol is beginning to get to me. Feeling a bit hot. Is it hot? No?’

‘Ok, Aziraphale, easy does it. I’ll get you home in one piece.’ Crowley slung an arm possessively around Aziraphale’s waist, and took one last shot of vodka before giving a salute to the group. If Aziraphale wasn’t mistaken, his parting glance at Anthony was one of victory. How splen—no, best if he didn’t think too hard at the moment. 

The cool night air felt wonderful on Aziraphale’s face. He granted himself the luxury of ignoring his thoughts, and instead, he simply reveled in the swish-crunch of Crowley’s jacket against his back as they strolled through Soho. The meager crowds on the streets had turned to throngs as the clock ticked on. After Aziraphale stepped one foot off the pavement to avoid some women waiting on entry to a nightclub, Crowley kept them in the road proper. He had to agree that, ironically, this was the safest way to travel while somewhat inebriated. 

Despite taking twice as long as their trek down this evening, they eventually regained Aziraphale’s unassuming doorstep. Crowley snapped open the front door far too blatantly, and Aziraphale was just about to tell him so when the bookshop did a strange wobbly thing and he got distracted. 

‘Can you make it up the stairs?’ 

Aziraphale nodded indignantly. He might have been drunk, but if he’d managed the walk home, he could certainly handle his own staircase. 

‘What’s gotten into you, anyway? I know you’re a dreadful lightweight, but it was only a few vodka shots, and one drink at the club. Shouldn’t have you in such a… such a state—angel, is it hot in your flat? Why is it so bloody warm in here?’

‘See?’ Aziraphale threw over his shoulder to the demon climbing the spiral staircase behind him. ‘You-you’re a bit drunk too. Probably because I didn’t eat today. As such. And you’re just the same as… as me. Can’t never… ever hold your liquor.’

‘Least I’ve got an excuse,’ Crowley snarked, slipping off his leather jacket and his own boots, and then shoving Aziraphale onto the bed to take his jacket and boots off, too. ‘I was… had been drinking before the club. Before… before meeting up with-’ he yawned dramatically and knelt on the foot of the bed, then began climbing up toward the pillows, chucking his glasses at the nightstand. Aziraphale had laid down right where he was, on top of the duvet, legs still hanging over the edge. 

‘Better scoosh up here, A’iraphale,’ Crowley yawned again, ‘’fore you fall off in the middle of the night. Bloody Hell in a handbasket, when  _ did _ we become such… what’s the word?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Aziraphale brushed him off, shifting his body up the bed in a bizarre approximation of the backstroke. No sooner had they both found pillows than their gentle snores were falling in sync. 

•§•

‘Anthony… ‘s a good… good name.’

Crowley stirred. Who the fuck was in his fucking bedroom in the middle of the fucking night talking about— _oh._ _Great._ He, in all his absolute idiocy, had invited himself into Aziraphale’s bed after a few measly vodka shots. He was worse than a lightweight; he was a complete knobhead. Six thousand years of love sickness, and what does he do the first bloody fucking moment he has a chance with the angel? Goes and shoves him into the arms of some daft as shit human musician! He deserved what was coming to him, he really did. Only… that wasn’t quite fair to Aziraphale, was it? Whatever pleasant nonsense he was imagining, it wasn’t Crowley’s to witness. He’d have to find a way to extricate himself from this situation without waking the angel.

‘Yes, darling, I know it’s a sensitive question… rather personal…’

Crowley had better think of a way out of this fast. First step would be unpleasant but—he looked around, finding a vase of flowers on a sideboard— _ here we go. _ Crowley winced with the feeling of alcohol voiding his body as the flowers wilted rapidly. He made a mental note to bring Aziraphale a new bouquet in the morning. 

‘But, well, I’ve always wondered…’

Crowley rolled slowly onto his side and began slipping his legs off the bed, when-

‘What  _ does _ the “J” stand for?’

Wait.  _ Wait. _ Aziraphale had said, ‘Anthony.’ He had to mean… couldn’t have meant… couldn’t be  _ dreaming _ about…

‘Ngk!’ Fuck.  _ Fuck. _

‘Crowley…?’ Aziraphale rolled toward the center of the bed, eyes fluttering open so beautifully it hurt to look at him. ‘Crowley. You’re here… you’re finally here…’ he said sleepily, before leaning in further and sliding his lips over Crowley’s own. The mattress dipped with the combined weight of them, pouring a drowsy angel on top of him as a clever tongue slid into his mouth. Aziraphale moaned low, causing a response in Crowley’s body over which the demon suddenly felt no control. He wanted; oh Hell below, how he wanted! He reached down, hands roaming greedily over back and hips, wrapping around still-clothed thighs and coaxing them open to straddle his desperate corporation. 

‘Crowley!’ Aziraphale gasped against his lips, rolling his hips forcefully downward. When Crowley moaned in reply, he found his tongue sucked into Aziraphale’s mouth, and he knew he wouldn’t be long for this world. 

‘Crowley, it’s been ages, and I never knew… never knew if I was worth  _ the effort, _ but now-’ he was grinding his hips again, and the friction on Crowley’s cock was everything and not enough-‘I need it. I need… please. Please, Crowley!’

‘Oh, G- yes, angel. You’re worth, ahhhh fuck, you’re worth every sort of effort. Just, could you please… get us out of these clothes?’

‘Mmmm of course, my dear. Now let’s see…’ One flick of a wrist, and Aziraphale’s cock was sliding along Crowley’s length, perfectly bare and smooth and-

‘Fuck this,’ Crowley growled between gritted teeth, flipping a gorgeously pliant Aziraphale onto his back. 

‘Do you think I’m really that easy?’ 

Crowley’s smile dropped, and he searched Aziraphale’s face wildly for a sign that he hadn’t ruined everything.

‘Relax, I’m joking! I’ve been waiting bloody lifetimes for this! Now, are you going to ride my cock like the fucking hellion you are, or will I need to pull myself off to get through the night?’

For just a moment, Crowley’s entire body was paralyzed. What in the realm of Satan had gotten into his angel, and why had it taken so bloody long?! Fortunately, being the devil-no-longer-cared (and absolutely besotted, but let’s not get into that now) bastard that he was, he snapped to it quickly, wrapping his miraculously lubricated hand tightly around Aziraphale’s cock and working him up and down for just long enough to earn a hard slap to his arse. 

‘We’re immortal, Crowley, there’s plenty of time for wanking another day. Now, get on with it before I—oh, GOD ABOVE!’

Crowley was sinking slowly, achingly, almost unbearably slowly, down onto Aziraphale. His body was lean and tight, and as he brought Aziraphale to bottom out, he reveled in the sight of his angel’s back bowing off the bed with pleasure. And then, he began to fuck. They had known each other so deeply, and for so long, that finding a rhythm was the work of mere moments. Aziraphale locked his eyes onto Crowley’s, which had blown wide with black as the sensation of his lover’s body within his own overtook him. He sucked one of his own fingers languorously into his mouth, then drew it out slowly and pressed it into Aziraphale’s nipple. Rubbing circles onto that tempting brown bud where he wished his mouth could be brought an onslaught of delicious sounds from the angel now gripping his hips hard enough to bruise. Crowley would need to ruck up his shirt at every opportunity tomorrow; it would never do to hide such works of art. 

When Aziraphale began to buck up into him, Crowley knew the end times were coming soon. He reached precariously forward with the hand not pinching and rolling Aziraphale’s peaked nipple between its fingers and braced himself against the headboard. Kneeling up to give Aziraphale a steady target, he was not prepared for the firm, lightly calloused hand that took hold of his cock and began working him with the same punishing pace his body was being blessedly subjected to. Almost immediately, Crowley sputtered out a terrible approximation of Aziraphale’s name, coming all over the angel’s broad, beautiful chest. Aziraphale went over the edge just afterward, a raucous cry of, ‘oh, fuck yes!’ tumbling from his lips. 

Crowley tipped sideways toward the mattress, and before he hit the duvet, a sparklingly clean, devilishly warm angel was tangling their bodies together and dragging him down into a dreamless sleep.

•§•

_ Shit. _

Sunlight was slicing through the small window above the bed, illuminating the space where Crowley was not. Aziraphale’s lack of clothing told him that it hadn’t been a dream, that the events of the hours in between had been as real and indulgent as a Nutella crepe. Well, wonderful. Now Crowley was missing  _ and _ he was craving chocolate hazelnut spread. This was not the time for such frivolity. 

Aziraphale decided on a proper, human-style shower. He needed time to think. As the hot water melted the ache in his head, he considered the situation rationally. Perhaps Crowley had needed a shower of his own, a change of clothes, some hot tea to stay his nerves… or wash away the memory of his drunken mistake oh shit shit shit  _ shit. _ He was certain, absolutely certain, that Crowley was sober last night when they, er, consummated their… relationship? Perhaps that was it. What if Crowley had only been looking for a shag, and when Aziraphale attempted to cuddle him into oblivion afterward, he took the first opportunity to escape. But no,  _ no,  _ it couldn’t be that. The way Crowley had been acting jealous of Anthony, the way he had been draped over Aziraphale, had taken his shoes off and been so tender... no. Those were not the actions of a man only out for a good time. 

What could have driven him off, then? It’s not as though he could have mistaken Aziraphale’s interest for-

‘Oh, Crowley,’ he murmured into his towel, ‘you lovely, lovely idiot.’

That had to be it, then, and there was only one thing for it. Aziraphale would have to come clean. Crowley might be upset at having been played that way, but really, what choice had he been left with. And anyway, he would come around. Demon he may be, but he was a forgiving one at that. Aziraphale dressed quickly—easy enough when one essentially had a uniform—and flicked out the lights in the shop. Despite being perpetually closed on Sundays, there were always those would-be patrons peering through the windows, wondering if an exception might be made. Detestable. 

The air outside was warm, and on any other occasion, a leisurely stroll would be just the ticket. However, this would not wait. Somehow, every crossing signal between Soho and St James Park was in Aziraphale’s favour.  _ What luck, _ he thought, smirking as he leaned into his newfound freedom. He didn’t spare a thought for where he was going; rather, he reached out with his most finely-tuned of senses and caught the heavy scent of unrequited love. Striding around corners and past coffee carts (to be revisited later, he thought), Aziraphale allowed himself to be reeled in by the inimitable throbbing heartache that was Crowley. 

Crowley, who was sat on a bench, so terribly focused on his own misery and a swan pair’s mismatched dancing that he failed to notice Aziraphale’s approach. Crowley, who was shouting at the black swan to simply ‘bugger off, and stop honking you worthless sod, that one’s never going to pick you, anyway!’ Crowley, who was indeed a complete idiot, and a hopeless romantic, and please,  _ please let him still be mine. _

‘May I sit?’ Aziraphale asked, waiting for an answer for perhaps the first time in history. 

‘If it suits you,’ Crowley sniffed, his nonchalance a translucent veil over injured pride. 

‘It does, rather. Crowley… I think we need to talk. Do you understand what-’

A disgruntled glare warned him off that particular phrasing.

‘What I mean to say is, do you know why I… did what I did? Last night?’

‘Don’t worry about it, angel. You had a few drinks, were wound up over Anthony,’ he spit the name like it was a four letter word, ‘and in our lack of sobriety, we made a mistake. No worries, I won’t tell your paramour what you’ve done if you won’t.’

‘He’s not… Crowley. Oh, I suppose I’d better just come out with it.’

‘Fuck off, I said! Fucking pathetic wanker!’

‘Oh, I… um…’ Aziraphale fiddled with his jacket, which he regretted wearing for the surprising heat of the day, and debated whether he’d be best coming back another-

‘Been watching this white swan bow for a bloody hour, and this shit over here just keeps honking at him like a-’

‘Crowley, forget the swans for a moment. I need to tell you something important. I… don’t have feelings for Anthony. In fact, I—well, this is rather embarrassing—I only met him last night.’

Crowley’s brow furrowed, sending his sunglasses deeper into his face. ‘But if you’d only met him last night, how did you know where he’d be playing? Or even his name? And wait, he knew yours… angel, you’re not making any sense, are you still…’ he made a drinking gesture, as though that were somehow more subtle. 

‘No, I haven’t been drunk since the middle of the night. Crowley, will you listen, please? This is hard for me to say. Crowley… it was a set up. Anthony is a friend of Newt’s. You see, when I explained to Newt that I’d been in love with you for ages, and that I was certain you felt the same way, he suggested that if I could make you jealous, maybe you would-’

Crowley’s glasses slid slowly down his nose. ‘You’re WOT?!’

‘In love with you. Do pay attention. Anyway, Newt suggested that-’

‘You’re in love with me? In love. With  _ me. _ For-’ he was choking on the words, literally choking. Aziraphale wondered if he might need to provide the Heimlich maneuver, or perhaps CPR. Not that he knew how to do either of those things. And not that Crowley actually needed to breathe. But it seemed like he should at least attempt-

‘AGES?!’

‘Oh, good.’ Aziraphale smiled merrily. ‘I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to check your airways for obstructing words. Yes, darling, I have been in love, with you, for ages. I had been at a complete loss as to how to tell you, and this scheme seemed the perfect thing!’

‘Bloody Hell, angel! If you knew I was in love with you, too, you could’ve just told me!’

‘That’s what Anathema said! She’ll be absolutely chuffed to know she was on the right track all along.’

‘Anathema? Does everyone in this city know what’s going on except me?’

‘Don’t be silly. I’m sure the coffee vendor over there hasn’t the faintest idea. Now, the question is, since we’ve already had  _ relations _ , what do you propose we do next?’

‘Sex, Aziraphale. For the love of—call it sex,’ Crowley moaned, his head tipping back in what appeared to be a complex blend of relief and despair. There was still an overwhelming sense of love, however, so all was right enough for now. ‘Honestly, Aziraphale, I may need some time to process this. It’s been millennia of assuming you’d never come around, and now you tell me that—Satan’s knickers—you tell me that you’ve been in love with me all this time?’

‘Yes, dear. Though I suppose, if I’m being fair-’

‘Fair?!’ Crowley squawked.

‘Please do shut up and listen. If I’m being fair, I only realized what was really going on during the Blitz, when-’

Crowley’s head was sinking into his hands. ‘I remember, Aziraphale. Fuck me, do I remember.’

‘Well… good! Perhaps we could get some breakfast now? I’m famished after last night’s  _ shag _ and that coffee roasting smells divine.’

‘Whatever you want, angel,’ Crowley sighed into his palms. ‘Only, let’s go someplace with alcohol. I’m afraid I’m going to need it.’

‘The Ritz does do a lovely brunch on Sundays! And… oh yes… I believe I can feel a spot opening on the reservations list.’

Crowley stood, disheveled and exasperated, but hopelessly, tirelessly in love, in the centre of the park, and extended his hand. Aziraphale took it, standing and beginning to stride toward the hotel with gusto. That morning, bird watchers would report seeing a large white swan, accompanied by a sleek Australian black, honking as they flew over Berkeley Square. 


End file.
